


No Kink before Breakfast

by mustehelmi



Series: Shit, honey, you're so lovely [2]
Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Domestic, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bottom Peter Parker/Top Wade Wilson, Breakfast in Bed, Dorks in Love, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Humor, M/M, One Shot, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut, Spideypool Bingo 2019, Stripper Peter Parker, Teasing, Wade Wilson Loves Peter Parker, Wade Wilson has Powers, so much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-11-07 13:22:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20817971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mustehelmi/pseuds/mustehelmi
Summary: Peter worked late last night, so Wade brings him breakfast in bed. Looks like he’s thirsty for more than just coffee though . . .[This PWP can be read as a standalone if you’re not interested in the first part of my spideypool stripper!verse]





	No Kink before Breakfast

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is a fill for the spideypool bingo 2019 prompt "breakfast in bed"  
Despite being the second part in a series, this fic works well as a standalone too

Mercenary work having predominantly nightly hours has countless downsides for someone living in a committed relationship. One of its perks though, is that they match with your partner’s work schedule if they pull shifts at a strip joint; a perk Wade relishes taking advantage of when he returns from a successful job at one in the afternoon, and finds Peter sprawled across their queen sized bed in nothing but a pair of red satin booty shorts. Never passing a chance to surprise him with breakfast in bed, Wade quietly sets to work in the kitchen.

Peter doesn’t dance much anymore, not with Wade shouldering Aunt May’s medical bills and his college tuitions – the two main reasons why he initially picked up exotic dancing (although Peter enjoys pushing his body and performing for an appreciative audience, too) – but if Sister Margaret’s is short-staffed or if Peter has excessive energy to work off (in other words, misses dancing), he does take the stage. If Wade’s lucky, he catches Peter softly snoring beneath a mountain of decorative pillows and fleece blankets at least once a week.

Breakfast tray in hand, Wade tiptoes into the bedroom. First, he pushes the curtains aside and opens the blinds to let daylight in, then he climbs the bed and noses at Peter’s exposed shoulder blade. Peter shifts and grumbles, burying his head deeper beneath the pillows.

“Morning, morning, it’s time to wake up,” Wade sings against his skin.

“Ngh-uh.” Peter twists his arm up and elbows Wade in the jaw, and Wade makes a show of withdrawing and rubbing the spot, even though his healing factor has already soothed the ache.

“Ouch. I don’t remember agreeing to pain play before breakfast. It’s kind of hot though, to be honest.”

“Pain’s . . . your turn off.” Peter huffs and pops one eye open to peer at Wade through a gap between two pillows shielding his face from the day.

“But not yours.”

“It’s still before breakfast. Kinky bastard.”

Wade chuckles. “Not for long. Feast your eyes!”

Reaching for the breakfast tray, he presents one plate with every millennial’s biggest weakness - avocado toast (without salt, because Peter’s a weirdo who likes his greens au naturel) - one with scrambled eggs and a large cup of coffee with two sugars and a liberal amount of cream. Setting his sight on the drink, Peter twists around to sit straight and grasps the giant pink mug that reads “I’m not superwoman, but I’m an exotic dancer so close enough” in a white swirly font. A thank you gift from one of his co-workers after he had helped her get rid of an obsessive customer.

“Thank god,” he says and takes a huge gulp. “What time is it?”

“One thirty.”

Peter hums and curls both hands around his cup. His hair is mussed, stray strands standing on end or falling in his eyes. Wade wants to run his fingertips across his forehead.

“When did you come back?”

“Just now. Made you breakfast first thing.”

Biting his lips, Peter studies Wade’s bare face over the rim of his mug. He tries not to feel self-conscious about how exposed he is, how the ugliness of his scars (the ugliness of _ him_) is laid bare before the most gorgeous, flawless creature ever born in this universe. Even after two years of steady dating, after moving together and giving Peter a permanent role in the tragicomedy titled _ The Life of Wade Wilson slash Deadpool_, he hasn’t shaken the fear nested at the back of his mind, the one that whispers to him about how undeserving he is of Peter and his love, how Peter one day will realize his mistake and walk away without a look back. The voices in Wade’s head feast on this trepidation, nay, expectation. Wade digs his blunt nails into his palm to distract himself from them.

“Thank you,” Peter whispers with a smile and leans forward. Wade closes the remaining distance between them and seals their lips in a good morning kiss.

Peter’s mouth is soft and tastes of sweet coffee, but his tongue is insistent when it slides against Wade’s. Seems like he’s looking for more than a simple greeting. Onboard with this (anything for Peter, especially sex. Doomsday will arrive before the day Wade denies him that), he grins and pushes the breakfast tray aside so he can hold Peter close. One hand dives into those messy curls and the other explores the dip that runs along his spine. Peter grips Wade’s shoulder with one hand, the other reaching to set his mug on the bedside table. When he breaks the kiss to see what he’s doing, Wade dives to nibble at the skin below his ear.

“How was, ah, work?” Peter asks out of breath and tugs at the hem of Wade’s t-shirt. Aaw. Wade’s heart swells. As the ever considerate and concerned boyfriend that he is, Peter wants to know if Wade got hurt on the job, if he lost any body parts or is extra sensitive someplace. Wade nips at his earlobe and pulls back to ease the examination while Peter’s hands fly across his chest and stomach.

“Fine. Took a few bullets.”

“How many?”

Wade shrugs. “Five?”

“Okay.” Rising to his knees, Peter hovers over him for a second, before kissing him again. Wade doesn’t object, nor does he mind the wandering hands that push his sweatpants down his hips. He returns the favor by slipping his fingers into the back of Peter’s shorts and caressing the crack between his ass cheeks. 

“What about-” Wade mouths Peter’s collarbone “-about your night? No trouble?”

“Nah. Medusa was a no show again.”

Wade scoffs. “Again?”

”Uh-huh.” Peter yanks at Wade’s waistband. ”Come on, get up, take these off. If she didn’t rake in so much once she does come in, Weasel would’ve fired her a long time ago.”

“She deserves to get kicked out. Besides, he doesn’t need her money. He’s got you.”

"No, he’s got _ you_." Peter kisses Wade’s nose. “But enough about Weasel or my boner’s a goner.”

Wade grimaces and crawls further on the bed, now naked, to help Peter shimmy out of his shorts. They land on the floor next to Wade’s clothes. “Another turn off.”

“Mm, so hurry up and fuck me before I go soft,” Peter breathes against Wade’s lips and collapses on his back, pulling Wade with him.

“Aye, aye, captain.”

“I still think we need to work on your roleplay skills before we take them to the bedroom.”

Wade cocks his head. “As you wish, then?”

Peter snorts. “Westley, is that you?”

“I could be if you wanted me to.”

“Tempting, but no thanks.”

Sitting on his haunches between Peter’s widespread legs, Wade reaches into the bedside drawer and pulls out the lube. “Your loss, Buttercup.”

He squirts a generous dollop onto his palm and warms it in his hand, before massaging Peter’s rim with his lubed up pointer finger. Peter wiggles his hips, cants them upwards at the touch, trying to push a pillow beneath himself to support his lower back. Wade helps tucking it in, and when Peter settles and relaxes, he pushes a finger in, making a point of stroking against Peter’s inner walls as he dips deeper to brush against his prostate.

As he adds another finger, Wade caresses Peter’s hip bone and the base of his hairless erection. Peter waxes “for the job” – a necessary excuse to why he spends a chunk of his pay on himself every month rather than transferring it to his rainy day account, one that he needs to ease his guilt over treating himself. If anything, Wade personally finds body hair attractive (as he can’t grow any on his own). But pubes or not, Peter couldn’t look more stunning than he already does; pleasure hazing his gaze, legs spread and slender cock leaking precum, his chest heaving with shaky pants and a rosy complexion all over.

“What’re you up to, handsome? Preparing to, ah, to stick your whole fist up there, huh?” Peter asks when Wade works in a third finger.

“Would you object?”

“Right now? Hell yes I would.”

“Roger that.” Wade pulls his fingers out with a wiggle of his hairless brow. “If not a fist, what would his highness prefer?”

Confusion, then annoyance, flashes across Peter’s features. “Your cock?”

“And what do we say when we want something?”

“Please,” Peter deadpans, but the hint of a smile around his lips betray his true feelings. “Babe, your roleplaying sucks.”

Wade pretends not to hear the complaints (everyone’s a critic). “Say that again, but with more emotion, thank you.”

“Or you could just stick it in me?”

“More emotion or I’ll milk you until you come.”

“What? No. I’d much prefer your cock, _ please_.” Giving up on trying to hide his smile, but determined to keep up his act of annoyance, Peter raises an eyebrow. “Good enough?”

“Yes, but it could use more sincerity. We’ll work on it.” Wade takes himself in hand to lube himself up. Though, rather than shuffling closer between Peter’s legs, he nuzzles Peter’s cock. “First I’ll have my fun with you.”

He dives to take the head of Peter in his mouth. Peter’s hands fly to smooth over his forehead and temples.

“You’re, hah, so extra.”

Wade pulls off to flash a cheeky grin from between quivering thighs. “Too extra?”

“Not at all.”

Satisfied, he swallows the leaking cock back down and hums. One pro to come from all that torture Weapon X put Wade through back in their day: he has no gag reflex anymore. Makes giving mind-blowing blowjobs easier. Working his mouth around Peter, Wade has him hitting the back of his throat and further in no time. Occasionally, Peter laments that he can’t return the favor with as much ease, but that’s fine with Wade. Seeing Peter’s blissed out expression and knowing that he, Wade fucking Wilson, caused it, is better than any blowjob in the world. And yes, that includes one given to Wade by Peter.

The bliss ends far too soon though when Peter pushes Wade away from his cock. “Okay, okay, that’s enough fun. I didn’t beg for nothing, right?”

It’s not a question. Wade retreats with one last loving suck, pulling his lips off Peter with an obscene pop and making a show of licking his lips the way he does after eating a treat, when he wants to savor the last of the aftertaste. Peter wounds his arms around his knees, opening himself up even further (wait, is that possible, or just an illusion?), inviting Wade in, like a present pleading to be unwrapped, unraveled, just for him.

Wade is not known for his self-control, too impatient and eager to please. Guiding his lube-slick cock to Peter’s hole, he leans down to kiss the corner of his mouth.

Letting his thighs fall open on their own, Peter moves his arm over Wade’s shoulder instead. Left leg wrapped around Wade’s hip, his ankle digging into the flesh beneath his shoulder blade, pulling him closer, while the right one slides along the small of his back.

Wade keeps his elbows wide apart so he can bite at Peter’s earlobe while still carrying his own weight, focusing on decorating the delightful skin rather than drowning in the sensation of pulsing heat surrounding him. Beneath him Peter’s chest rises and falls, sultry puffs of breath caressing his cheekbone on ever exhale, Peter’s abs brushing against his on every inhale.

“Come on,” Peter says and wriggles his toes against Wade’s back.

“You’re an impatient bedfellow.”

“And you’re not?”

Wade laughs and pulls back as much as Peter’s limbs let him, taking a second to center himself (because ho boy, is it nice inside Peter. Wade could crawl up his ass and live there) before snapping his hips forward again. By wriggling his pelvis and using his legs to reel Wade in, Peter controls the pace at which Wade moves, his groans and gasps far louder than Wade’s hitched breathing, moaning and the creaking of their bed.

(Maybe invest in a new bed frame next? Peter deserves better than this poor man’s symphony. Shame on Wilson)

He’s divine, a brown curly halo splayed around his flushed face and eyes glazed as he writhes beneath Wade, his back arching when he digs his heels into Wade’s flesh. Chanting “ah, ah, ah, yes” in his embrace.

Fisting himself in time with Wade’s thrusts, Peter’s cries grow whinier. He bites his lip, tension ripple through him and his hips rise off the pillows, pleasure pulling his body taut. For a second Wade’s whole world shrinks to revolve around the euphoria on Peter’s face, his saliva-slick lips and fluttering eyelashes, before he’s pulled back into his own body and the orgasm roaring through him.

Below him, Peter melts into soft and pliable muscles until he lies flat on the sheets. Wade rides through the last shudders, his forehead falling to rest against his biceps while he catches his bearings.

”So which one was the spider, mommy or daddy?” he asks.

“What?”

“Who gave you those long flexible limbs?” Spent and sensitive, Wade slips out of an equally sensitive Peter and rolls off him to flop on the bed with a groan. “Mommy or daddy?”

Peter’s voice is both fond and exasperated. “Actually, a radioactive spider bit me when I was three.”

“Makes sense.”

“Mm. Pass me a tissue?”

Wade pulls out a wad from the bedside drawer and Peter mumbles his thanks as he lazily wipes himself down. The scrunched up tissues end up at the foot of the bed. Whatever, they’ll have to change sheets anyway. Peter rolls to curl up against Wade again, one thigh and arm thrown over him to keep him anchored for however long he wishes. Wade is big time bad at denying Peter anything. A well-trained boyfriend! Soon-to-be-husband, one could hope. (Maybe Peter will give him a leash instead of a wedding band and parade him around town. Watch this, folks, the stripper boy’s finally tamed the crazy killing machine!)

“Ready for breakfast now?”

Peter groans. “My coffee’s gone cold.”

“Don’t worry, snookums, I’ll brew you more.”

“You’re the best.”

Overcome with the tingling warmth in his chest Wade makes a joke of it. “Aw, shucks.”

Peter shuffles around so he can support his whole weight on one elbow and gaze down at Wade with a determined little frown between his eyebrows. “No, I’m serious, I don’t say it enough. You’re the best. And I mean it. No jokes.”

Wade swallows, but doesn’t break eye contact. Not when all these emotions – care, fear, but above all deep resolve – swims in his dark brown eyes.

“No jokes.”

“Good. I love you, handsome.” Peter leans in to plant a chaste kiss on Wade’s cheek before moving to assess the breakfast tray on the bedside table. “Now, let me see those avocado toasts again. . .”

**Author's Note:**

> This is only the third PWP I've ever shared. If you enjoyed, please leave me some feedback on it so I know what sort of thing to think about the next time things get spicy! If you're unsure of what to write, you could always just pick your favorite detail or line and tell me about it - it's all much appreciated :)
> 
> Thank you to my dear friend and beta, Robyn, for her help with this fic!
> 
> [I've developed a habit of talking to the void on tumblr, about writing and whatnot.](http://www.sweetsoursugarcube.tumblr.com) Click the link and you can become a voice in the void who talks back (also much appreciated) (/‾▿‾)/


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